


Get Your Stroll On, Baby

by voodoochild



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Alternate Universe, Exhibitionism, F/M, Porn Battle, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:05:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim, Alex, a club, and sex in public. Everyone wins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Your Stroll On, Baby

**Author's Note:**

> La la la excuse to write AU clubsex what? Takes place in an alternate S3 dreamed up by **thatyourefuse**, where Alex chooses Keats over Gene, transfers - er, "downstairs" (or Whitechapel, same difference) - and becomes Keats's DI, with a few perks along the way. Spoilers for bits of S3 and what our Mr. Keats actually is. Title from the Afghan Whigs' "Going to Town".

They're all the way over on Reagent Street in Soho, near Piccadilly Circus, which is far enough out of their jurisdiction to make Alex feel safe and close enough to Charing Cross for his comfort: he's mates with DCI Oakmont over there, she'll look the other way if they do happen to get caught.

It's not his type of place - although in a lot of senses, it _is_, full of sex and drugs and many excellent vices - but for what he's getting, he'll tolerate more than he usually would. And what he's getting is really good; the chance to tick another fantasy off their list, the chance to publicly demonstrate just how thoroughly he's gotten under her skin, and oh yes, eliminating a sizable bit of Alex Drake's shame.

If it wouldn't make him look like a wanker, he'd start singing. He just might - "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" is on, and he does have a weakness for Wham! songs.

The lights are strobing, but he can pick Alex out immediately - at the bar, of course, sipping her second fruity martini drink of the evening. She's got her favorite dress on - short, blue, no tights because it makes her feel naughty, matches her shoes - and even if he weren't looking for her, his eyes would be drawn in her direction. She's that surprising blend of posh, elegant, and girlish that men like, and the part of him that's male does like it quite a bit.

(When corporeality is an opt-in choice, gender is hardly something to worry about. But beings like him do have their preferences for manifestation, and his have always been "male", "educated" - to varying degrees, he's been a dockworker and a barrister, and he never really noticed the difference, mentally - and "technologically-proficient". Some of the others manifest as female most of the time. No one has ever had the courage to ask the boss which gender it prefers.)

He makes his way through the eclectic crowd, brushing past tattooed twentysomethings and business types in suits and wing-tips. Another reason behind their picking this club - easy to blend, easy to hide, you can't even get in the door if you don't know the right people - and extremely discreet, not to mention open to displays of sexuality. He's fairly sure the two men to his left have their pants open, though it's hard to see in the smoke and strobe.

"What'll you have, mate?" the bartender says as he settles in among the crowd. She's tiny, barely over 150 cm, and he thinks she needs a box to reach the taps, but she gleams with the shine of the almost-damned. He'll have to come back and see what he can do about that.

"Gin and tonic, extra lime," he replies, then turns on the charm that comes second nature to him in any incarnation. "All right?"

She starts pouring alcohol, blonde hair flying all over the place and a grin on her face that wrinkles her nose. "You're adorable, sweetie, but you're not my type."

"No?"

"Bit too tall. And you look like a footy player." She slides him his drink and then belatedly turns back to him. "You're not, are you?"

He laughs, throwing back his head, knowing it'll draw the attention of the people around him at the bar, and yes, there she is. Her head turns in his direction, and he leans closer to the tiny bartender, sliding her a few quid for the drink.

"Yeah. Play for West Ham, but don't tell anyone. You've got it in for footy players?"

"Not particularly, but my boyfriend-"

Whatever she was going to say is cut off by a very warm, very familiar body sliding between him and the bar. Alex has a bemused look on her face as she wraps her arms around his waist.

"That plan of yours to get me jealous? It's working."

He has to laugh. "Already? All I did was talk to this lovely-"

Alex leans in, nips at the underside of his jaw before sliding her mouth up to his ear. Her hand closes over his cock, rubbing through his suit trousers. "And that's all you're going to be doing if you've still got designs on fulfilling that fantasy of mine. Still up for it?"

There's only one answer to that kind of proposition.

"Absolutely."

*****

She leads him into an alcove: private enough that there's a waist-high divider separating it from the dance floor, dark enough to conceal a good many sins, but still surrounded by people. Depeche Mode is pulsating over the speakers, and Alex surprises him by humming along as she presses against him. She surrounds him, hair tickling against his cheek, one arm around his neck, the other looped around his waist, body molded to his, hips cradling him, long legs on either side of one of his as she rocks back and forth.

They're not doing anything more than dancing, but he feels the shiver of anticipation in her. There's an intent rhythm of her hips, restless and practiced, the same one he feels every night he fucks her. He doesn't think he'll ever tire of it, finding new and creative ways to take her apart, and is equally as glad to switch roles, see what she's capable of.

(She is capable of so much, he knows. So much more than anyone ever expected of her.)

Her dress is riding up, and just to see if she's still on board with this scenario, he slides his hand up - and, to his immense delight, discovers she isn't wearing knickers. His fingers meet hot, slick curls, and she gives him a wicked smile.

"Oops. I knew I'd forgotten _something_ tonight."

He groans into her hair, thrusting against her stomach and setting a slow pace with his fingers on her clit. "Naughty girl, I'd say so."

"Going to do something about it?"

She's like fire against his fingers, and she's going to feel even better against his cock. Spotting his opening, he walks her over to the low barrier overlooking the dance floor, and spins her around, bending her right over the cool wood. Her gasp is lost in the pounding music, which is fine because his hearing and vision have narrowed to the sight in front of him.

Inspector Alex Drake, dress around her hips, arse on full display, leaning on one arm and displaying a perfectly arched invitational eyebrow.

Mentally apologizing to his tailor (Gieves and Hawkes, of course) for the various substances he's about to get all over his suit, he moves up behind her, unfastening his trousers and looping his arm around her waist. Slowly pressing into her - fuck, she's shaking and tight and this is going to be excellent - he leans down to whisper in her ear.

"Was this what you'd had in mind?"

She gasps, hips snapping backwards as he starts to fuck her. "It might have been. Oh, you bastard, come on, _harder_."

He gives her what she wants, what she begs for. Faster, harder, to the left, his hand on her clit and her mouth bitten red from trying to keep quiet, and just when she's starting to forget where they are, he reminds her.

"Think someone's watching you? Right now?" he asks, low and rough in her ear, and she sobs, grinding her hips back against him. "Anyone could see, you know. Anyone at all, if they came close enough, if the smoke happens to clear a little. See you bent over here, taking it like the tart you're trying to be. Low-cut dress, tits hanging over, bet some punter's getting a thrill. Not half the one I'm getting, showing you off like this, but not bad either."

Her eyes open with a low moan, hips moving faster. She coils up like a spring, tight around him and he stops, lets her feel him inside her. It sets her off like a shot, and he covers her mouth with his, swallowing her cries and then fucking her slow and sweet through the aftershocks. Tiny shivers and moans from her, looking around slightly panicked to see if anyone's watching, and he comes with a gasp against the back of her neck.

She tastes like sweat and the undertone of perfume, and he pulls out slow, tucking himself back inside his trousers and helping her tug her dress back into place. Turning around, she folds herself into his arms, warm and soft against him.

"Thank you," she says quietly, kissing his cheek in that unexpectedly girlish way she has.

There are any number of stock responses he could make in return, but he has learned to take her seriously and be as honest as he can. Her loyalty is the result of much care and effort, and it's something to protect. He isn't about to make Hunt's mistake; have that brain, that loyalty, turned against him.

"Any time," he answers, and means it.


End file.
